


Bruise Break Mend

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Coming Untouched, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub Play, Early Relationship, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Protective John, Restraints, Rimming, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson, first time bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's unsure about the depth and darkness of his desire for Sherlock. Sherlock's got a little surprise for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruise Break Mend

John Watson is a complex man. He knows this about himself. Within the walls of his fairly unassuming exterior seethes contradictory and intricate emotions that even he’s never completely understood. When he was in primary school, teachers invariably loved him on first sight. He looked so obedient, cherubic, all chubby cheeks and round blue eyes and _yes, ma’am_. He always relished their shocked expressions the first time he landed in front of them with a bloody lip and a blackening eye, gravel embedded in his shredded knuckles. _What on earth did you think you were doing, Johnny? You broke his nose!_ John would grin up at them with blood in his teeth, feral and powerful, his blood thudding through his chest. _He called me a name. No one calls me names._

He’d had to change schools more than once.

John spent a lot of years looking in the mirror, staring into his own roiling indigo eyes and wondering what in the hell was _wrong_ with him. _Why can’t you just be like the other boys, Johnny?_ _Just get on, be nice. Don’t cause a fuss._ His mother’s words ringing through his head as he started yet another school, trying to be what everyone wanted him to be. Trying to be unassuming, cooperative, to _just get on_.

Over the course of his forty four years, John’s learned to more or less control these volcanic emotions. He rechannels them, gives them a way out that won’t destroy him. Joining the army was one outlet. Learning to shoot, to command, to turn his natural anger and ferocity into something productive. Being part of something bigger than himself. It had made him feel useful for the first time in his life.

Sex has always been one of those outlets - gets his adrenaline up, his heart racing, allows him to feel powerful without awakening any of his darker impulses. He’s always liked pretty much everyone. He’s never been fussy about gender, height, weight, hair colour. Never fussy about anything, really. He didn’t have a “type”. He liked who he liked, and fucked who he fucked, and most of the sex he’d had in his life was light hearted and casual, the kind of sex where everyone gets off without preamble and they split a pizza and watched the news afterwards.

Sex for John had always been plentiful, but rather ordinary.

Occasionally he wondered if it was simply because he’d not been in love before, not really. He’d loved James, a bit, but that relationship was never really on equal footing. It was doomed from the start, and deep down John had known that, not allowed himself to get too attached. He’d loved Mary, before she shot Sherlock, before he knew what she really was. Before it all fell apart. Now he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever loved someone who didn’t even exist. Aside from the two of them, he’d never truly loved anyone he was with.

And certainly John is hopelessly, irrevocably, sometimes frighteningly in love with Sherlock. There’s never been any question of that. He loves him the way hydrogen loves oxygen, two explosive substances combining to make something no one can live without. That’s how they’ve always loved each other - intensely, inextricably, _bound_ to each other in ways they couldn’t have explained to anyone else. They just _are_ , there’s no other way for them to exist, except as part of the other. John was lost and Sherlock was alone, and then they found each other and it all made sense. It all worked, every strange and off-putting aspect of their personalities balanced the other. They made each other both better and worse, and there was no way out. No choice in that matter.

_He’s like a drug. I’m addicted._

Some element of that deep and abiding love undoubtedly fuels a part of John’s dangerously volcanic _lust_ for Sherlock. Though in the moment, the lust never feels like love. It feels like a fire burning out of control, whipping fast and frightening down a tube tunnel. It feels unstoppable and fatal, how much he _wants_ Sherlock.

It’s primal. It’s bloodlust. The first time they’d touched each other that way, a fearsome _something_ awoke deep down in the secret places of John’s psyche.

When he lays down in their bed at night, Sherlock’s warm sinuous body draped over him like a sleeping jungle cat, the words that spin round his mind are those of possession, of domination. He wants to _take_ Sherlock, to _own_ him, though he knows in most ways, he already does, without having done anything more than exist. As Sherlock often gasps out during lovemaking, or murmurs against John’s ear in the drowsy afterwards, he’s John’s. _I’m all yours, I’m yours. Always have been, since the day we met. You bewitched me, John Watson._

If he’s honest, John’s actually rather alarmed by the depth of his passions, this raw _need_ he feels for Sherlock. It’s got him on a lead, bubbling to the surface at the most inappropriate times, making him insensate with desire. He’s become shit at crime scenes anymore, he can’t think. He just watches Sherlock moving, roving across pavement and stone like a wolf scenting its prey. Mesmerised by him, by the way he moves, remembering how those ribs feel twisting under his hands, how those long lean thighs flex tight around John’s waist when Sherlock’s coming apart.

The blog languishes. All he wants at home is Sherlock. He wants to breathe him in, drown in him, lose his entire being in the smell of his sleep sweaty curls, in the sound of his gasps when John’s got three fingers inside of him and his mouth on his cock. He finds himself crowding Sherlock up against the kitchen counters to snog him breathless before they’ve even had a cup of coffee, sidling up to him while he plays violin and running his hands over the hard lines of his belly and hips until they’re both panting and someone ends up on his knees.

John’s never felt sexual passion like this. It’s ruining him. He can’t control it, he can’t tame it, and he can’t act on it. They’ve only been together this way for a few months, and they’re still feeling out one another’s boundaries and turn-on’s. John is so unfamiliar with his own urges now, this desperate, fierce hunger within him, he doesn’t even _know_ what he wants.

So he tries to do what he’s always done with the emotions he doesn’t know how to name or process. Rechannel it, find another outlet. He takes up boxing, spending two nights a week punching the shit out of bags of sand until he’s dripping with sweat and his hands ache and his bad shoulder seizes up. After a few weeks, ropey muscles bulge out his forearms and his biceps grow enough that some of his shirts become too tight.

He catches Sherlock staring at him when he thinks John's not looking, his lip caught in his teeth. One afternoon, out of nowhere, Sherlock locks the flat door, shuts off their phones, straddles John on the sofa, where he's been attempting to do something with the blog. He sets John's laptop aside and leans in to rub his nose along John's hairline, nibble at his ear.

Sherlock squeezes his arms. "Were you this fit when you were in the army?"

"Possibly." John whispers, unable to hide the pleased grin in his voice.

"These." Sherlock squeezes his arms again, bites at his collarbone. "These are. _Infuriating_."

Sherlock runs his hands all over John’s chest, traces his tongue along the curve of the burgeoning muscles on John’s neck and shoulders until they’re both breathing hard and desperate - until John can’t _stand_ it anymore. He pushes Sherlock over the arm of the sofa with a growl, yanks his trousers down until they’re stretched tight around his knees, and fucks him harder than he’s ever done. He muffles his own shout against Sherlock’s shoulder blade and shoves half his hand in Sherlock’s mouth to quiet his moaning as he bucks and thrashes and makes a mess of the sofa cushions.

Afterwards, John realises how far he let himself go, how rough he was. He gathers Sherlock into his arms and kisses his forehead. “Are you okay, baby? Are you okay?”

Sherlock nods and cuddles closer. “More than okay. That was incredible, John.”

Though Sherlock’s fine with it, John’s not. He had been on the edge of something that felt dangerous - a need to _mark_ and _claim_ and break Sherlock open, shatter him. To see how rough he could be before Sherlock objected. He could _see_ it in his head - Sherlock spread out underneath him, wailing and begging. It frightened him, how much he wanted it. He’s never felt things like this before during sex, or about sex, and he wasn’t at all confident in his ability to regulate himself against this new influx of cravings.

Sherlock licks at his arms, nuzzling him like a drowsy house cat. “I like these. Very much.”

“I can tell.” John chokes out, trying to sound lighthearted.

The boxing is definitely not helping.

“John.” Sherlock murmurs one night after some truly spectacular shagging, while they’re both still naked and sticky and twisted round one another like vines. His index finger traces a lazy path along John’s sternum.

“Yeah?” John feels pleasantly dull, sated. He’s right on the edge of being really soundly asleep, barely cognisant.

“Are you -? Are you - satisfied - with what we - when we...?” Sherlock trails off, and turns in the crook of John’s elbow. John can _feel_ the perplexed expression on Sherlock’s face, he doesn’t even need to see it.

“When we have sex?” John cracks an eye open, suddenly more awake. The bedside lamp is still on, casting half of Sherlock’s face in deep shadow.

“Yes.” Sherlock mumbles, quiet and verging on ashamed. He ducks his face against John’s neck, hiding.

“ _Sweetheart_. Christ, of course I am. Hey. Come up here, look at me.” John slides his hand under Sherlock’s jaw to pull his head back, and shifts so he’s sitting up a bit more. Sherlock’s eyes meet his, still glassy from his orgasm, but wide and bright with emotion. His mouth is rubbed pink from John’s evening stubble. He’s the most gorgeous perfect thing John’s ever seen.

Sherlock blinks at him, coquettish without meaning to be, and a spike of lust cuts through John like a knife. He came not fifteen minutes previous, with his cock deep inside Sherlock and Sherlock’s teeth in his shoulder, but god, if he could get hard again right now, he already would be.

“What on earth would make you think I’m not? You’re amazing in bed, and you’re fucking gorgeous, and I _love_ you. So bloody much. Of course I’m happy when we have sex. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.” Which _is_ the truth, even if it’s not the entirety of it. John leans down and tilts Sherlock’s chin up a bit more, presses their mouths together gently and laps at the soft swell of Sherlock’s bottom lip. “You drive me absolutely _mad_ , my beautiful boy. Like no one I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock gives John a lopsided smile and curls back down against his chest, his arms bent up against John’s rib cage. “It’s just sometimes - sometimes I get the feeling you’re holding something back, or - omitting something.”

John clears his throat, scratches at his eyebrow, uncomfortable with how very close Sherlock is to being _exactly right._ It's bloody irritating sometimes, to be in a relationship with someone who never allows him to have a scrap of goddamned privacy. "Don’t deduce me when we’re fucking, alright?”

“ _John_.” There’s a definite reprimand in Sherlock’s voice.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. That wasn’t on.” John scratches his fingernails lightly up Sherlock’s spine and kisses his hair, apologising. “I just, um, you know, want you to be in the moment and not -”

“I wasn’t _deducing_ you, John. I just feel like _you_ aren’t always in the moment. I get the feeling there’s some part of you that you’re not giving me.” Sherlock lifts his head from John’s chest and hold him in an intense gaze, his face deadly serious. “And I want. _All_ of you.”

“I know, baby. And I. Want all of _you_ , too.” John chews on his bottom lip, contemplating actually telling Sherlock all these dark fantasies that have been cluttering up his brain for months, since that first night together.

But before he can open his mouth Sherlock sighs contentedly and nestles down until his face is pressed against John’s bare belly and curls a long pale arm around John’s hips and whispers, “I’ll give it to you, you know. All of me, whatever you want. You can have it.”

“I know that.” John wraps both arms around Sherlock’s head and cradles him, feeling tremendously protective.

“I love you, John.”

It can wait. This moment is too perfect to spoil with an Important Conversation. “I love you, too, Sherlock. So much, you’ve no idea.”

“I do. I know, John.” Sherlock hums and wriggles, turns his face into John’s stomach and kisses at it sleepily. John sinks his hand into those lovely soft curls, twists them round and round his fingers until Sherlock’s respirations slow and his hot breath ghosts soothingly across John’s skin.

***

John should have known that wouldn’t be the end of that conversation. Sherlock Holmes does not let up when there’s a mystery to solve, and now John has become the case du jour. Sherlock keeps prodding him over the next weeks, trying to tease out what it is he’s holding back. His style is to ambush John with random theories, in an attempt to startle him into revealing himself.

“Past lover you haven’t told me about?” Sherlock asks blithely one morning, a string of floss hanging over his bottom lip.

“No, Sherlock.” John turns on the shower and steps in with a sigh. “It’s nothing.”

“Worries about erectile dysfunction.” Sherlock blurts out in the back of a cab on the way to dinner one evening.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! _No._ Not even close. Have you _seen_ yourself? That’s not really something I’m concerned about, ever.” John rubs his hands over his face in frustration.

“Attraction to one’s sexual partner has no bearing on -”

“Sherlock, I love you. Please shut up.”

“Sexual fantasies you’re uncomfortable with.” Sherlock murmurs one late night as they're falling asleep, his lips pressed against the nape of John’s neck.

“Sherlock. Leave. It.” John knows from the timbre of his voice that he’s given it away. It’s been a long wearying day, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to prevaricate.

Sherlock moves his mouth away from John’s skin, props himself up on his right elbow and leans over the side of John’s face. “That _is_ it. You’ve got a sexual fantasy, or fanta _sies_ , that you don’t want to share with me. Because you’re afraid I’ll disapprove, or be made to feel uncomfortable.”

“Sherlock, goddammit. It’s 1:30 in the morning, and we ran all over the bloody city today, and I’m tired. I really don’t want to have this conversation now.”

“So there is a conversation to have.” The satisfaction in Sherlock’s voice is absolutely infuriating.

John sighs in exasperation and rolls so they’re face to face. “Yes. Fine, alright? You got me. There is a fucking conversation to have, but _I don’t want to have it right now._ I am tired, and not prepared, and I just want to sleep. So just leave it. Please.”

Sherlock tilts his head, considering, searching John’s face with that inquisitive gaze. As fed up as John is at the moment, he still can’t help but find Sherlock wickedly sexy when he’s sorting out the answer to a question. John can almost _see_ his brain working, see the light of recognition illuminating those bottle green eyes at the instant he figures it out. It’s even more alluring now than it was the first night they met.

He reaches up and brushes his thumb across one beautifully curved orbital bone and before he can stop himself, breathes out, “God, you are gorgeous. Even when you’re making me mental.”

Sherlock arches the eyebrow under John’s thumb and purses his mouth. “John. I want to talk about this.”

“Alright, fine. We’ll talk about it. Tomorrow morning. When I’ve had some rest and I can actually think enough to form coherent sentences. Not now.” John kisses the end of Sherlock’s nose and flips on his side, curling in on himself with his face turned as far from Sherlock as he can get. He feels exposed.

“Tomorrow morning.” Sherlock burrows and nuzzles, rubs his cold nose back and forth between John’s shoulder blades, sighing in such a self-satisfied way, John can’t decide whether he wants to smack him or shag him.

 _Both_ , he thinks as he’s finally drifting off. _Which is really the crux of the problem._

***

As it happens, the next morning affords them no time to discuss anything private.

Awakened by the buzz of Sherlock’s phone at barely five, John groans and rolls over to grab it off the bedside table.

“Oh fuck _off_ , Greg.” He mutters to himself, voice thick with sleep. He pokes Sherlock in the side. “Wake up, sunshine. Case.”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock grumbles, yawning and stretching. He rubs his face against John’s bare shoulder and hooks an ankle around his calf. "Five more minutes."

“Come on, you lazy thing. He’s sending a car. Up you get.”

They stumble out of bed and hastily get dressed, John pulling on his jeans from the day before and throwing a cardigan over a rumpled tee shirt. Sherlock, of course, looks immaculate in a navy button down and grey wool trousers. He might lounge around the flat in flannel pyjama bottoms and John’s old tee shirts, but when they leave the house, he always looks like a bloody model.

As the sun rises orange in a purple autumn sky, they lean against Baker Street’s sooty wall, shoulder to shoulder, glugging takeaway coffees from Speedy’s.

“Some day, in the very near future, I am going to get more than three hours of sleep in one go.” John sips his scalding hot coffee as he watches the shadows retreat around the corners of the houses across the street.

“That’s an admirable goal, John. Truly.” Sherlock grins down at him, green eyes glittering in the morning sunlight, lines from his pillowcase still pink across his pale cheeks. He’s devastating.

John wants to devour him.

Before he can do anything but smile back, however, the police car pulls up to the kerb. Sherlock straightens, tenses, immediately shifts into in case mode. John bites into the end of his tongue, and tries to follow suit. _Keep your dick in your pants, John,_ he thinks, even as his eyes roam over the lush swell of Sherlock’s arse as he bends to get in the back seat.

This is going to be a long day.

***

Sherlock after solving a case is the most exhilarating thing John’s ever laid eyes on. He _shines_. He’s windswept and wild, an untamed animal proudly displaying its latest kill. John can’t keep his hands off of him, can’t control that inferno of desire that’s always burning in his belly. He wants to fuck him in the goddamned men’s toilet at New Scotland Yard, in the elevator, across Greg’s desk. Wherever’s closest, really.

Conveniently for John, Sherlock after a case is invariably high on adrenaline and absolutely desperate to _be_ fucked.

This particular day, Sherlock solves the case in a near record setting eight minutes. The paperwork takes longer than the case and the arrest combined. They head back to Baker Street before noon, Sherlock climbing all over John in the back of the cab, heedless of the driver’s virulent objections.

“Sherlock,” John whispers warningly, “We’re going to get tossed out of this cab.”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock licks at John’s earlobe and pulls it between his teeth. He hooks one long leg over John’s thigh. “Want you.”

“Want you, too, you bloody gorgeous bastard.” John slinks a hand between Sherlock’s legs and squeezes the tender inside of his thigh, making him jump and whimper. The sound of him makes John want to pinch him again, even harder, make him squirm and beg. “But you’re going to get us in trouble. Ten more minutes.”

“And then what?” Sherlock’s voice drops about ten octaves as he rubs his mouth against John’s ear, nosing against him as though he’s scenting him. He moves closer, sinuous and sleek, moulding himself seamlessly against the side of John’s body. “What happens in ten minutes?”

“Then -” John glances in the front seat. The cabbie’s eye are very purposefully straight ahead, the rearview mirror cocked so that he can’t see in the back. Traumatised, poor sod. Satisfied they’re being studiously ignored, he nuzzles against the sweet hollow between Sherlock’s ear and jaw, shivering at the way Sherlock’s breath catches. “Then I'm going to -”

He stops abruptly, swallows down all the words he’d been just on the verge of allowing to spill out. _I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be bruised and aching for days. It’ll hurt every time you move, and you’ll remember what I do to you, how I make you feel. I’m going to leave bite marks in your skin that scar, I’m going to scratch my name all over your body with my fingernails and make sure anyone who ever looks at you knows you’re mine. That I own you, that you belong to me. I’m going to push you down on your knees and fuck your mouth until there are tears streaming down your face and you’re choking on my cock when I come down your throat._

“John?” Sherlock tilts his head, his brow furrowing.

John sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Jesus Christ. He was really about to say all that. He was really _thinking_ all that. Has been for months, honestly. God, how he wants those things, and more. Darker things, things he’s not even been able to admit to himself yet.

His heart is hammering out of his chest.

“John?” Sherlock says again, this time moving back across the seat so he can look at him properly. “Are you alright?”

They had promised, the very first night together, that there would be no more secrets. Secrets, lies and assumptions, even with the best of intentions, had nearly destroyed them more than once. In trying to protect each other, they’d almost driven away the one person they needed most.

John had been the one to vocalise it, his mouth half full of damp curls, the bedclothes soaked in come and lube and sweat, buttons scattered on the floor, all the evidence of their ferocious need for one another strewn throughout the room.

 _No more secrets, Sherlock. No more lying. If we’re going to be this, if we’re_ together, _you_ don’t _lie to me. It’s the one thing I won’t stand for. Not anymore._

_I know that, John. No more. I promise._

_Even when it hurts you, even when it will hurt me. Even when it’s hard as fuck to say. I want the truth, every time._

_I promise. I promise._ Sherlock had murmured, twisting in John’s arms to whisper it against his throat, against his chest and his belly as he slunk down between John’s legs and took him back into his mouth. _I promise._

Now John's the one breaking their promises to each other.

“I’m alright. Yeah. Well. Maybe not entirely - um, just.” The spell between them broken for the moment, John presses a fond kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Let’s talk about it when we get home, yeah?”

“Yes, okay.” Sherlock frowns and gives him a suspicious sideways glance.

The ride home is silent after that, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts. John can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He stares resolutely out the window, his stomach in knots. He’s committed now. To telling Sherlock these thoughts that have been shadowing him for the entirety of their sexual relationship, to admitting he’s no idea what to do with them, how to make them stop.

Sherlock locks the flat door when they get in.

“Don’t want to be interrupted.”

“No.”

John flops in his chair, scrubs his fingers through his hair and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’s mentally preparing for a long serious conversation when he feels Sherlock lowering himself gracefully to the floor between John’s knees. He takes one hand from his eyes to see Sherlock curled, long legs folded tidily underneath him, his eyes wide and black. A sultry smile plays at the edges of his mouth.

“What’re you -”

“John. You must be aware that I do have observational skills that are a bit beyond your ability to obfuscate.” Sherlock inches forward, rubs one hand up John’s shin and lingers on his knee, massaging it gently. His head is tipped to the side and down, looking up at John through the charcoal smudge of his lashes. “I know what you want. I know what you want and I want to give it to you. I’ve known for a while now. I’ve just been giving you the opportunity to say it.”

A stone drops into John’s stomach as he stares into Sherlock’s face. Of course he knows. He knows everything, all the time.

“Okay, genius. You tell me then, since you’ve _always_ got the bloody answer.” He’s angry. He knows, he _knows_ it’s irrational to be angry at Sherlock for just _being Sherlock_ , but he can’t help it. It crashes over him in one unsteadying wave. He can feel his neck getting hot.

Sherlock’s sexy little grin falters for just a moment. “Don’t be angry, John, please. I want this as much as you do.”

“What is _this_ , precisely?” John sniffs and tries to get up, to dislodge Sherlock from between his legs, but Sherlock’s long fingers tighten around his knee. He could move him if he really wanted to, but it’s a plea - _Stay, John, don’t walk away from me_ \- and his ability to say no to Sherlock has always been basically nonexistent. He settles for shifting backwards in his chair as far as he can go.

Sherlock swallows, licks his lips. He looks down at the floor and then back up at John, his expression one of rapt adoration. “You want to hurt me,” he whispers, sounding simultaneously apprehensive and eager.

Hearing it articulated so bluntly is shocking.

John’s stomach lurches. The anger leaves him in a rush, replaced by overwhelming and inexplicable guilt. He reaches down to comb his fingertips through Sherlock’s hair and run them tenderly down the side of his face. “Baby, I don’t. I -”

Sherlock rubs his face into John’s touch. “Yes, you do. And I _want_ you to hurt me. I want it.”

“You don’t even know what - shit, _I_ don’t even know what I want. I’ve never felt anything like this before.” There’s no way to flat out deny it, not now.

“I know what you want, John.” Sherlock repeats in a hush, his voice almost reverent. His cheeks are flushed with colour, and his hand on John’s knee is vicelike. When he opens his eyes, they’re black and fathomless, heavy with desire.

“How can you, when I don’t even know?” John tips his head forward into Sherlock’s, their noses aligned, mouths centimeters apart.

They stay locked in this intimate silence, not kissing, not talking. Time loses all meaning, moving so slowly as to seem suspended entirely, and then jumping and skipping seconds where John’s sure something happened, but what, he’s not clear. They’re on the edge here, the edge of his own psyche, about to break into parts of himself he’s been trying to tame since he was a child. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

Sherlock’s thumb begins a slow circle on the inside of John’s knee. He tilts his head and presses the most achingly gentle kiss on John’s lips. The care and tenderness in it makes John want to cry.

“I know you, John Watson,” Sherlock murmurs, their mouths still touching. “To the casual observer, you’re unassuming, perhaps even uptight. Fastidious. Someone who didn’t know you might even mistake you for _boring_. Idiots.”

John grins, despite his pounding heart and his fear that they’re rapidly moving toward decisions that cannot be undone.

“But I know you. I know the real you. You are. _A wild thing_.” Sherlock whispers harshly and bites hard into John’s bottom lip, tugs on it, then swipes the tip of his tongue over the indentations left by his teeth.

A visceral deep seated pleasure spreads hot and shimmering through John’s nerve endings. _A wild thing._ That sounds good, and right, and deliciously dirty. He licks into Sherlock’s open mouth, tracing the backs of his teeth, circling the ends of their tongues together. Sherlock whimpers and rocks up on his knees, pressing John against the back of the chair as he practically crawls into his lap.

“You’re the kind of man who carries a loaded unlicensed firearm in his coat as though it’s a pack of gum. You’re barely 168 centimeters, yet I’ve watched you absolutely destroy men twice your weight and half again as tall without flinching. I see how your eyes go dark when you hit someone, when you tackle a suspect and pin his arms behind his back until he’s begging you to stop.” Sherlock says this as though it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard, his voice gone thick and dark as coal smoke. He licks along John’s jaw and up the whorl of his ear, scrapes his teeth down the side of his throat. “You’re _dangerous_. You get off on it.”

“I do, fuck, god, I _do_ ,” John’s whole body is singing, every single nerve alight with the the exquisite filthy truth of Sherlock’s words. No one, no one has ever understood him like this, understood his basest, deepest desires the way Sherlock has. From the very start of them, Sherlock knew. Knew the kind of life John needed. Of course he would understand this, too. Why had John ever doubted him?

“I know you do. And I get off on watching you. _John._ Tell me. Tell me what you want to do to me. _Please._ I want to hear you say it.” Sherlock’s voice is deeper and darker than John’s ever heard it.

John swallows hard and sucks in a breath. This is the moment he steps over the edge. “I want.”

“Yes. Yes, tell me.” Sherlock rolls his body against John’s, burrows and nestles down with a low sigh, as though he’s never in his life been more comfortable. He tucks his arms bent up against John’s chest and rubs his mouth into the crook of John’s shoulder.

“I want to own you.” John breathes out slowly.

Sherlock’s nuzzling into his neck, his hips unconsciously moving in little hitching circles against John’s thighs. “You do. You always have.”

John shakes his head. Now that these thoughts have been unfettered, they’re washing over him like a tsunami, unstoppable and brutal. “No. I want to _own_ you. I want to mark you, I want my name carved into your skin. I want to hit you and cut you and make you beg. I want to tie you to the bed and fuck you with my tongue until you come all over yourself without even having been touched. I want to come on you, rub it into your skin, make you walk around all day like that, smelling like me, _belonging_ to me.”

“Oh _god_ , John.” Sherlock squirms closer, his breathing ragged against John’s ear. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

John couldn’t stop now if he wanted to. He’s plummeting down a well, with nothing to hold on to, not knowing what awaits him at the bottom. His own desires feel as alive and real as the thudding of Sherlock’s heart pressed against his shoulder. He allows his head to fall back against the chair, shuts his eyes and breathes deep and even.

“Sometimes, I can,” He stops, licks his lips, tries to calm the blood absolutely _roaring_ through his veins at the thought that he could have all this. That Sherlock wants it too. “I can see you. I can see you all spread out for me, shaking and begging for me to let you come, because I haven’t, not in hours and hours, just teased you and played with you and let you get right to the edge and then taken it away. I can see you - in handcuffs with strap marks across your back and naked on your hands and knees at my feet like an obedient dog, and Jesus Christ, I’ve never thought about these things with anyone else, and I think these things _all the time_ about you, and it, god it scares the _fuck_ out of me. It scares the fuck out me, Sherlock, because I love you so much and I would _never_ want to hurt you, baby, never, and I don’t understand this.”

“Shhhhhh,” Sherlock’s large strong hands wrap around John’s head and he pulls it to his shoulder, adjusting so he’s straddling John’s lap, knees squeezed beside John’s hips. “Don’t be scared of it, John.”

“I don’t understand, Sherlock. Help me understand. Please.” Being achingly turned on while also feeling frightened and lost is unmooring. He feels adrift, his head is swimming.

Sherlock gives his head a small but firm shake. “Open your eyes, John. Look at me.”

John obeys, and meets Sherlock’s intense stare. Sherlock blinks at him, his thumbs stroking John’s temples soothingly. Then he smiles, sweet and soft, the kind of smile that’s only meant for John, no one else gets to see it.

“You’re a possessive man, John. Well, I should clarify that - you’re possessive of _me_. You’ve always been. And if you hadn’t noticed by now, _I rather like it._ ” Sherlock nibbles at his bottom lip and smirks, hitches his hips forward so John can feel exactly how much he likes it. His mouth falls open at the contact and a breathy little whimper escapes him. “I rather like it a lot.”

“But why -” John digs his fingers into the arm of the chair, trying to focus, which is exceedingly difficult with a squirming, flushed, rock hard Sherlock in his lap.

“Why the pain? Why the subjugation?” Sherlock’s thumb drifts from John’s hairline to his mouth. He drags it over John’s bottom lip, dipping the tip into his mouth just enough to tease. “Because it’s dangerous. Because it’s power. Because you like to be in control. Because you appreciate rules and boundaries but you also like to push them, break through them. And also simply because you love sex, and the pleasure and pain receptors in our brains are inexorably connected. Most people like a _little_ pain during sex, John. Nails scratching down the spine, a love bite that nearly breaks the skin, a bit of teeth during an enthusiastic blow job, et cetera. There are thousands - millions - of people who practice some form of sexual play based on sado-masochism. It’s perfectly, entirely normal.”

John can’t speak for a moment, overwhelmed by the simplicity and the matter-of-factness of Sherlock’s explanation. It seems so. Uncomplicated. Sherlock’s still gazing at him worshipfully, his beautiful pale cheeks blushed pink with arousal. He’s ethereal. He's perfect. He's everything John's ever wanted, and all the things he didn't even know he wanted.

“But. What about about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, I don’t want you - I don’t know, doing this just because I want to.”

“John. Have you known me to _ever_ do something I don’t want to do?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, a bemused smile playing on his lips.

“No. Never.” John grins at him, relief coursing through him. All this darkness, all these thoughts and feelings he's been so terribly afraid of, suddenly don't seem frightening at all. Because, as in everything else, they're in this together. “I just want to be sure. So you...definitely want this, then?”

“Want you to hurt me, and take control of me, and decide when and if I get to come? Want you to mark me up, bruise me, make me yours wholly and completely?” Sherlock’s breath catches as heat blooms across his cheeks and down his neck. He bends forward to lick at John’s earlobe. “John, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

John swallows, trying to remember how to talk through a haze of arousal. “Okay. Just, um, checking.”

Sherlock grins back, licks his lips. “Thank you. Now that’s established...Can we please stop discussing this and just _get to it?_ Because if you hadn’t noticed,” he grinds forward against John’s stomach and his mouth falls open as he exhales, “I am - slightly desperate for you to fuck me.”

John lifts his fingers from where they’ve nearly melded into the arm of the chair, drifts them down Sherlock’s chest and traces the outline of his erection. Sherlock shivers and moans, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as his head drops back. This is the most aroused John’s ever been in his entire life. He can feel every hair on his body quivering, his belly jumping and tensing in anticipation.

“What do you want, baby?” He whispers, shifting up so he can nuzzle Sherlock’s beautiful throat, lick at the bulge of his Adam’s apple.

Sherlock’s chest heaves as he reaches his arms up to encircle John’s shoulders and pull them closer together. His mouth is soft and hot against the rim of John’s ear. “Tie me up.”

“Oh _fuck_. Yeah, yeah,” A shudder of arousal barrels through him just at the thought. God, they’re really going to do this. He wants it so badly he can barely think.

Sherlock shimmies backwards off of John’s lap and stands, looks down at John with eyes so dark with desire that they’re entirely black. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay.” John breathes, peeling himself out of his chair and following Sherlock to the bedroom, though he can barely walk, with his cock achingly hard and one leg half asleep from Sherlock sitting on his lap for so long.

He lowers himself to perch on the edge of the bed as Sherlock goes to the wardrobe and stretches up to retrieve a large red cardboard box from the top shelf. John hadn’t even seen it there, it must have been carefully hidden behind the folded shirts and boxes of tie pins and cufflinks they never wear. Sherlock places it on the bed beside John and looks at him almost bashfully from under his long black lashes, nibbling the inside of his lip.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

John lifts the lid off the box slowly and gasps at the contents - a pair of wrist cuffs lined in silky crimson velvet, a thick rubber anal plug, a pink and black leather flogger, a shimmery silver blindfold, and an array of colourful jute ropes bundled in tidy knots.

“I bought a spreader bar, too, but it wouldn’t fit in the box.” Sherlock murmurs, sounding disappointed.

“Sherlock. Jesus Christ.” John whispers, running his fingertips over the cool metal loops of the cuffs, over the butter soft leather straps of the flogger.

“Not good?” Sherlock sounds suddenly unsure, nervous.

“No, baby. It’s good. It’s _amazing_. God, you’re incredible. Come here,” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and tumbles him down onto the bed, jostling the box and knocking it to floor. He crawls half on top of Sherlock, kisses at his cheek and his jaw. “How long have you been hiding all this stuff?”

“Oh, a while. I told you, I’ve known for quite a long time, and I just thought it was better to have the proper tools, rather than having to improvise when the moment finally arrived.”

“You are amazing. I love you so much, _god_ , how I love you. You can’t possibly know how much.” John tucks his nose under Sherlock’s jaw, nuzzling and sucking gently at his skin, while his left hand roams the expanse of his chest, finding a hard nipple and pinching it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock gasps and arches up into John’s touch. “I love you too, John. I love you more than anything. Now tie me to the goddamned bed and fuck me before I come in my pants.”

“Bossy.” John hums, lips pressed tight against Sherlock’s thrumming pulse. “I think I’m supposed to be the bossy one here.”

Abruptly, as though he’s been issued a command, Sherlock pulls himself out from under John and sits up. He looks back down at John, black curls spilled messily across his forehead, his eyes big and round, his lips parted just enough to be devastatingly sensual.

John frowns at him bemusedly. “What’s wrong, love?”

“What should I do, John? Tell me what to do. I want to be so good for you.” His normal deep rumbling baritone is at least three octaves higher, breathless as though he’s been running hard.

It’s probably a bit of an act, something John knows Sherlock’s more than capable of, but it hardly matters. Hearing Sherlock say he wants to be good, wants John to tell him what to do, sends a fierce pulse of arousal through John that’s so powerful he’s glad he’s still laying down, or he might have fallen over. His cock twitches uncomfortably against the zip of his jeans, reminding him how very clothed they both still are.

Sherlock’s looking at him wide-eyed, silent and obedient. He’s so good at this, already. It occurs to John that he might have done this before, with someone else. The thought of that, of _his_ Sherlock being someone else’s well behaved little pet, of _anyone_ else daring to touch Sherlock this way, to do these things to him, ignites a jealous flame in his belly. If he’d had any lingering doubts about what they’re about to embark upon, they disappear in a flash. Sherlock is _his_ , and he is Sherlock’s, to claim, and possess, and hurt, and _love_ , and _treasure_ , forever.

This kind of love is the kind that’s _supposed_ to leave bruises.

“Take your clothes off,” He says roughly, his voice shaking. His body is tense with want, his skin feels stretched thin, too tight over his muscles. His face is burning hot.

Sherlock scrambles to comply, immediately standing up to shuck off his trousers and unbutton his shirt. Once he’s nude, he doesn’t move to get on the bed or do anything else. He stands by the side of the bed, compliant, goosebumps visible across his pale arms and legs, his hard cock standing against that taut belly, deep red and shiny at the tip.

“Christ, you’re beautiful. Fucking hell.” John sits up and runs his hands all over Sherlock’s thighs, the smooth curves of his hipbones. Sherlock shivers and twitches, his hips shifting restlessly, but he stays quiet and mostly still, allowing John to touch him however he wants to. The high pitched mewls coming out of him are like no sound John’s ever heard him make.

“Sherlock. You good? Is this…?”

“Yes. It’s good.” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible.

John shifts his gaze from Sherlock's stomach to his face. Sherlock looks completely _gone_. His eyes are shut, lashes flitting against his cheeks, his mouth slack and swollen, wet with saliva. The flush on Sherlock’s cheeks is getting deeper, nearly violet tinged at the edges, spreading down his throat and chest. His entire body is shivering. He can’t seem to stop biting into his lip, continuously taking it between his teeth, letting it go, and biting it again.

Just from John issuing him one direction and rubbing his thighs. Jesus.

“We need a safeword, I think, Sherlock.” Though John’s never personally dabbled in this kind of play before, he knows enough to know that there’s got to be some kind of structure in place to make sure no one gets put in a situation they don’t want. And Sherlock is already so docile, so dangerously compliant. John could do _anything_ to him right now, and he would likely acquiesce, even if he didn’t like it.

Sherlock seems unfazed by this suggestion. He simply nods. “Alright. You pick it.”

“How about…” John casts his thoughts about, trying to think of a word that wouldn’t normally be uttered while mindless with pleasure, but something they would both recognise and respond to. “Cluedo?”

Sherlock nods again, his eyes never leaving John’s face. “Alright.”

“Okay.” John’s suddenly a bit lost, feeling as though he should know what to do now. “Um.”

Sherlock moves for the first time in long minutes, bends down and retrieves the velvet and leather cuffs from where they’ve fallen out of the box. He jingles them in front of John’s nose. “I think we were going to employ these, yes?”

All the blood in John’s circulatory system seems to flood between his face and his cock at the sight of those cuffs dangling from Sherlock’s long white fingers. He’s so transfixed, he can’t make words happen for a moment. Finally he stutters out, “Ye - yeah. Yes.”

Sherlock drops them in his lap and crawls onto the bed, wiggling his arse temptingly as he moves past John and lays down on his stomach. He shoves all the pillows to the side and stretches his arms above his head. The look in his eyes is pure heat. “Ready, John.”

John can’t bear being clothed one more second. He wants to be pressed skin to skin against every luscious curve and hard angle of Sherlock’s bare body. Divesting himself of his clothes as quickly as possible, and knocking the cuffs to the floor again in the process, he stubs his toe on the bedside table and curses, tripping and falling into the edge of the bed. He can’t help laughing at himself.

“Jesus. I’m sort of horrible at this, aren’t I?” He turns to Sherlock with the kind of easy grin they often share during sex.

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him and then giggles, reaching across the sheets to twine his fingers with John’s and pull him down so they’re laying together. He rubs his face against John’s bare shoulder, which is soothingly familiar.

“No you're not. You're perfect." Sherlock kisses at the curve of his bicep and nestles closer. He’s so soft, so gentle. So different than John’s ever known him to be. He’s enchanting like this.

John pets his hair, and he makes a sound not unlike a purr. John turns his head and Sherlock immediately mirrors him, their noses brushing briefly as their mouths meet, kisses tender and warm at first, but quickly becoming heated as John pulls at that pouting bottom lip until Sherlock’s breathing fast and squirming.

“John, please,” Sherlock whimpers against his mouth, circling his pelvis against John’s hip and gasping as his cock rubs against the smooth bone. “I need it so badly.”

Something in the tone of Sherlock’s voice - perhaps the desperation, the aching need that only John can alleviate - dissolves the last of John’s uncertainty. A rush of adrenaline floods through him, as powerful as those he’d felt in Afghanistan with a rifle hefted on his shoulder and IEDs exploding deafeningly around him.

“On your belly.” He’s only slightly surprised by the change in his own voice, the commanding tone that brooks no argument.

Sherlock immediately rolls away and resumes his prior position, wriggling a bit so he can get his hands close enough to the headboard to be cuffed. He watches John with half closed eyes, broad shoulders heaving, his sharp shoulder blades knitting together as he spreads his arms across the bed.

John retrieves the cuffs and holds them in his hand for a moment, considering. The rope alone would allow Sherlock more range of motion, but would be rougher against the delicate skin of his wrists. John has a sudden vision of a blissed out Sherlock limp and docile in his lap, while he croons softly in his ear and rubs Bepanthen cream into his rope burned skin. Oh god, he wants that, wants to break him first and then mend him, make Sherlock _need_ him, be wholly dependent on him. His cock twitches just at the idea of it.

“I’d rather use just the rope, I think.”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if he’s going to question it, or argue, and then immediately clamps it shut. He nods slowly and shuts his eyes. “Yes, John.”

A little thrill zings down his spine at Sherlock’s willing deference. He licks his lips as he bends down to choose a coil of dark violet rope and then a turquoise one, both smooth and satiny to the touch. Sherlock’s eyes open when John kneels on the bed, and he watches intently as John unwinds it.

He really hasn’t the first idea of how to tie someone to a bed, but knots he understands. He circles the violet rope around the left post of the bed, down low by the mattress, and ties it securely, then loops it over Sherlock’s slender wrist. It’s profanely beautiful, the dark rope against that milk white skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers hoarsely, bending down to press a tender kiss over both rope and skin.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moans, his voice shaking and half muffled by the bedclothes.

“Be patient.” John straightens up, tugs on the rope a few times to make sure the knots are tight, and slips his fingers under the band around Sherlock’s wrist. “Not too tight?”

Sherlock shakes his head, rubbing his face open-mouthed into the sheets. He’s rocking his hips steadily against the bed, a shimmering sheen of perspiration already breaking out across his back. His arse cheeks clench and tighten in rhythm with his gentle thrusts.

John puts a steadying hand in the lovely curve of Sherlock’s spine. “Stop that now. I decide when you come, remember?”

Sherlock nods a bit frantically and stills. “I’m not going to come, I promise. I’m not. I’ll be good.”

“I know you will. Lovely boy,” John kisses the damp curls plastered against Sherlock’s nape as he crawls over his thighs to tie his right arm down. He’s beginning to feel high. Everything has taken on a vaguely surreal quality.

Once he’s secured both Sherlock’s arms, he sits back on his heels to admire the sight of Sherlock strapped to the bed, face down and shaking with arousal, his sweaty hair clinging to his skin in inky spirals. John’s never seen anyone so sublimely and obscenely gorgeous in all his life.

“Perfect,” he says quietly, mouthing at the knobs of Sherlock’s cervical vertabrae. He feathers his fingers over the lines of his rib cage, and finally down to cup one lush arse cheek in his hand. He squeezes it as he kisses between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Up on your knees.”

Sherlock obeys without hesitation, curling his legs underneath him and sitting on his feet. It puts his head and shoulders at what must be a horribly uncomfortable angle, but he says nothing. John shoves a pillow under his head.

“You _will_ tell me to stop if you want to stop, or if something hurts and not in a good way, or if you need a break. That’s not a question.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock gasps brokenly.

“Safeword?”

“Cluedo.”

“Alright.” John smacks lightly at one arse cheek and then the other as he shimmies down the bed and kneels behind Sherlock. “Christ, you are a _vision_. Fucking _edible_.”

Sherlock groans wantonly and dips his spine so his arse tips up, offering himself. He’s straining at the ropes, instinctively trying to support himself by tucking his arms under his head. The fact that he can’t, that he’s completely at John’s mercy, makes John both heady with power and fiercely protective. Sherlock is _his_ , his to play with and tease and fuck, but also his to take care of. His responsibility. _His_.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Now just spread your feet.” John taps the inside of Sherlock’s ankles, and he slides his legs apart, thighs already trembling.

John takes his time, sliding his hands over Sherlock’s tensed calves, stroking the backs of his thighs, as he curls forward and kisses the centre of his spine. Sherlock’s working desperately hard to stay still, every muscle in his back shaking under the strain. Between his trembling thighs, his bollocks and his cock hang heavy, full and hot, flushed with need. Though he’s no intention of bringing him off this way, John can’t resist brushing his fingertips over the underside, tracing the vein and then back, tugging gently on his bollocks.

Sherlock jumps and shivers, rolls his head against the mattress and pushes his hips back in a silent plea.

“No, no.” John coos, every ounce of hesitation he’d had earlier now translated into a warm calm, the feeling that this could not be more right. Sherlock bound and helpless beneath him, having emerged as the eager and obedient pet John’s been fantasising about for months. This is exactly as it should be.

“Please, John.” Sherlock whimpers, his voice raw and breaking.

“No, I’m not going to touch your cock. I’m going to fuck you with my tongue and you’re going to come just from that. All over the sheets, all over yourself. You’re going to make such a nice mess for me, aren’t you, baby?” He leans down and presses the tip of his tongue against Sherlock’s sacrum, kisses lightly at it.

“Yes. Yes.” Sherlock grinds his face against the bed, his words lost in a desperate whimper.

“That’s right.” John licks up the base of Sherlock’s spine, his skin shivering with arousal and power and restraint, as his own cock is leaking copiously against his stomach and his balls are aching from denied release. He sweeps his tongue down to tease at the crease of Sherlock’s arse, and the taste of him invades John’s senses like a drug.

Sherlock whines and shifts his hips, his arms pulled completely taut as he strains to get John’s mouth where he wants it. John lands a smack to his left arse cheek that isn’t hard enough to really hurt, but isn’t gentle either. Just the sound of it, his palm slapping Sherlock’s bare bottom, is enough to make his cock jump and his balls pull up tight. It’s wickedly hot.

He breathes out raggedly, resisting the urge to reach down and stroke himself. He’s so hard, he can’t remember the last time he was this hard for this long. It’s delicious torment, waiting, drawing it out like this.

He smacks Sherlock again, harder this time, leaving the faint pink outline of his hand on that creamy white skin. “Don’t be impatient, you little tart. You’ll get it when I’m good and ready.”

Sherlock moans and nods, his face screwed up tight as though he’s in pain.

John hums appreciatively and puts both hands on the plump perfect arse in front of him, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks apart. John always loves the sight of that tight little hole, the puckered skin that’s darker than any other part of Sherlock’s pale body, the sparse black hairs. He loves to watch the muscle tighten and relax, watch it opening to take his cock so easily while Sherlock’s groaning and clawing at his shoulders. That feeling is intensified tenfold right now.

He presses the pad of his thumb against the opening, just exerting the least little bit of pressure. Sherlock writhes as much as he can with his arms tied, moaning and biting at his shoulder, scraping his teeth against his own skin desperately. A dark shudder pounds through John at Sherlock’s responsiveness, and he can’t wait another second to have his tongue inside the pulsing heat of this exquisite body.

Keeping Sherlock’s cheeks apart with his thumbs, John dips his face into the musky crease and licks in a circle around the tensed rim. Sherlock sucks in a breath and holds it, his whole body shaking. He’s clearly holding back.

“You don’t have to be quiet, love. Make some noise for me.” John murmurs, tongue flicking lazily at Sherlock’s hole.

“Oh, _John_ ,” Sherlock cries out, sounding agonised, his arms yanking convulsively on the ropes binding him until the headboard is nearly bending under the strain.

“Yeah, that’s it, show me how good it is, baby, show me,” John rubs his face into that sweet divide, pressing further, harder, feeling the clench of muscle closing around the tip of his exploring tongue.

Sherlock’s legs are trembling uncontrollably as John licks him, from the silk soft skin behind his bollocks to the base of his spine and back again. Once Sherlock is thoroughly wet, saliva running in rivulets down the insides of his creamy thighs, John thrusts his tongue into that lovely warmth and begins working him open.

He tastes like pure heat, like a summer day, sugared wine and sun-warmed skin. He tastes like honeysuckle and clean sweat. John hums against him and spears his tongue deeper, sucking at him gently, and stroking Sherlock’s arse with his thumbs. Sherlock arches and pushes back, groaning shamelessly.

John loves taking Sherlock apart this way, tasting him, feeling him, listening to him as his noises become more and more desperate. Normally by now, however, he would have reached one arm around to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand, to stroke him, swirl his thumb in the glistening fluid at the tip, to allow him to come, shouting John’s name as he pulsed between John’s fingers.

Instead, John’s fingers are digging into the flesh of Sherlock’s arse, so hard he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow. Perfect. Sherlock’s beginning to thrash, his cock swaying heavily between his legs, as John begins to quicken his pace. He licks over him, keeping him wet with saliva, and then thrusts into him again and again, fucking him with his tongue.

“John - I need - I can’t come like this - I need to come - please -” Sherlock babbles, more than a hint of real tears in his voice.

John leisurely withdraws his tongue from Sherlock’s body, lapping hungrily at his now loosened hole. “You can. You can, because I want you to. I thought you wanted to be good for me?”

“I do, I do want to be good, I just -” Sherlock’s definitely crying. John can hear the wet snuffling noises he’s making as he tries to form a coherent sentence.

“Then you come like this. Or you don’t come.” Oh, Jesus Christ, the power in those words. John’s head goes floaty, his blood evaporating into weighless clouds of pleasure as he allows himself to really _feel_ the role of the dominant, admits to himself that he’ll follow through and Sherlock won’t be permitted to come unless it’s like this, how John wants it.

Sherlock sobs harshly, his back muscles contracting. “I can’t, I _can’t_ -”

“You can, and you will.” John passes his hand over the wet circle of precome that Sherlock’s leaked on the sheet. “Look at that lovely mess you’re already making. What a good boy. You can do it.”

“Oh, John, _ohhhh_ ,” Sherlock’s sobs dissolve into an obscenely deep moan as John delves into him again, twirling his tongue in a dirty circle around the inner edge of his hole.

John licks and sucks, laps at him with a wide flattened tongue, then pulls delicate skin gently between his lips and exerts pressure, alternating until he finds a rhythm that has Sherlock coming apart at the seams, gasping and weeping as though he’s being tortured. He’s absolutely _dripping_ , a steady stream of precome dribbling from his neglected cock. John’s jaw is starting to hurt badly enough he thinks he might have to stop when a ripple of tension radiates down through Sherlock and he stiffens.

“That’s it, there we go.” John rests his face against Sherlock’s arse and cheats just a little, easily slipping two fingers into Sherlock’s spit slick hole. He locates his prostate and brushes his fingertips against it.

Sherlock keens and wails, his entire body a riot of motion and noise. John’s never seen anyone so completely undone before, and it’s intoxicating. The knowledge that _he’s_ done this, that’s he’s made Sherlock a willing slave not only to John’s desires, but to his own pleasure, makes the throbbing heat of his desire intensify, a molten electricity spreading heavy through his nerve endings.

“Pleaseplease _please_ ,” Sherlock begs, his voice so thin it sounds like a tripwire about to snap.

John thrusts his ring finger in beside the first two and licks around where he’s buried knuckle deep. The stretched muscle flutters beautifully against his tongue and when he presses his fingertips against that sensitive little nub, Sherlock goes completely rigid.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , I’m coming, I’m - oh my god, oh god _John_ -” Sherlock’s head snaps back as his words get swallowed in an animalistic howl, his tear stained face exultant and upturned, every tendon in his long neck standing out as he arches his body in one graceful serpentine motion. He begins to buck wildly, sobbing and biting into the swell of his bottom lip as his cock jerks and spills in thick streaks, spattering his chest and throat with come.

John slows the movement of his fingers, but doesn’t stop entirely, stroking him through it. He kisses Sherlock’s arse, his lower back, licks at his thighs. “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Sherlock seems incapable of saying anything else as his head swings down to hang limply between his shoulders, his body now going boneless. He quivers with aftershocks, breathing in uneven gasps and hiccups.

John slips his fingers out with an obscene slurping sound and slides up the bed to press their foreheads together. He kisses Sherlock’s sweat soaked hair and brushes it tenderly from his face. Sherlock rolls his head to the side to look at John with unfocused eyes. He manages a soft smile.

John kisses him, licks at the seam of his closed lips. He smoothes his thumb over one sharp cheekbone. “You bloody perfect creature.”

Sherlock whimpers and opens his mouth, licks at his swollen lips and gulps air as though he can’t get enough. He swallows and swallows, but can't seem to get any words out.

“Shhh, it's alright. Just be still. I’m going to untie you now, okay?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock hums, his eyes falling shut.

John carefully undoes one rope and then the other, placing Sherlock’s weak and shaking arms gently to the mattress. His wrists are a bit red, but not raw, no broken skin. John leaves the ropes hanging from the bed and lowers himself to lie beside Sherlock, who’s still trembling and making kitten-like noises into the rumpled bedclothes. John strokes his hand up Sherlock’s back, kneads at the back of his neck.

“That was amazing. You were so hot, god, baby, when you came. Came without even being touched. I told you you could do it.”

“I’ve never - never before -” Sherlock pants out, reaching a trembling hand out to grab at John.

John threads their fingers together and lifts Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. “I knew you could. Because you’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Sherlock makes a dainty agreeing sort of sound and coils closer, his body moving over John’s in increments. First a curving foot over his ankle, then a long leg draped over John’s thigh, an arm snaking across his chest. Finally Sherlock opens his eyes and grins knowingly as he pushes John fully on his back and climbs on top of him. He straddles Johns hips and wiggles his own suggestively as his hands feather all over Johns abdomen and chest.

“Oh, god, yeah,” John’s own arousal, so long ignored, is overtaking him. He can’t think of anything else but fucking up into Sherlock’s slicked open body, of that tight heat around his aching cock.

Sherlock bites his lip, looking down at John with eyes full of fire. His sweaty hair hangs in matted locks over his forehead, tangling in his lashes. Come is still slipping down the smooth plane of his chest in droplets of pearly white. He looks like a Victorian rent boy, debauched and delicate. His own spent cock gives a twitch as he lowers himself and the head of John’s cock slips against his wet and open hole. He arches up and away, thighs tightening against John’s hips.

Now John’s the one on the verge of begging, his prick painfully hard and wanting. He claws at Sherlock’s hips and pulls him down, growling, “Don’t be a fucking cocktease.”

“Not. Just getting this.” Sherlock stretches across John’s chest and retrieves the half empty bottle of lube from the bedside table. He dribbles the cold fluid over the head of John’s cock and closes his fist around him, stroking more than is strictly necessary to slick him.

John slaps Sherlock’s hip hard enough that his palm stings. “I don’t want your hand. Get that pretty arse on my cock, and now.”

Sherlock's half lidded eyes flash and he grins crookedly. He tosses the lube, then sinks down onto John’s cock and rocks his hips forward in one fluid movement that makes John groan and curl up as though he’s been punched in the stomach. It’s so good, so much better than it’s _ever_ been before. It’s _raw_ , seething and honest and dangerous, their innermost selves laid bare to one another. John’s never in his life felt more unleashed, as everything he’s always been taught to hold back has not only been freed, but _accepted_ and _wanted_ and _encouraged_.

He doesn’t have to censor himself anymore. He rolls his body up to meet Sherlock’s, clutching his hips, digging his fingers in hard enough to break blood vessels. “That’s it, that’s it, oh fuck, you’re so good at this, you take my cock so well, you feel so good, baby.”

At John’s words of praise, Sherlock’s lazy circles stutter and lose their rhythm. His cock stirs against his thigh, trying to get hard again, as his mouth drops open and his eyes roll back.

“Good boy.” John whispers, hypnotised by watching the effect his words have on Sherlock.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, sounding almost surprised as his cock swells and stiffens. His head lolls on his shoulders as he puts his hands flat against John’s chest to brace himself so he can speed up, riding John at a gallop. A bead of precome leaks from his now almost fully hard prick.

“Obedient little pet.” John chokes out, the pleasure in his own body twisting up tight, making him shake and shiver.

“Oh, _John_ ,” Sherlock grinds down and shudders, one hand snaking down John’s belly toward his own cock, as though he can’t help it.

John can barely breathe, the tension in his stomach is on the precipice of pain, and suddenly Sherlock riding him isn’t enough. He wants to _fuck_ him, be rough and brutal, hold him down and make him scream.

He pushes against the mattress with one foot and flips them effortlessly, Sherlock letting out a shocked yelp as he’s thumped on his back and John’s cock slips from him. John takes himself in hand and lines back up, briefly tracing the spasming rim with the leaking head of his thick cock and then thrusting home hard and fast. Sherlock’s back arches off the bed as John hitches his legs up over his shoulders and sets a merciless pace.

Sherlock reaches hesitantly for himself, perhaps thinking that John’s reversal of their positions was because he had been about to touch himself. He pauses, hand hovering near his cock, and looks up at John with wide, questioning eyes.

John grunts out, “Go ahead, baby. Get yourself off, I want to see it.”

Sherlock closes his eyes as his hand closes around his leaking prick, and sighs deeply, his other hand wandering up his chest to pinch at his own nipples.

“Jesus Christ, you filthy thing.”

Sherlock groans, swirling his thumb in the wetness at his slit, rubbing two fingers against his nipple until it’s erect and dusky pink, as John pounds into him relentlessly. John’s getting close, his balls so full with denied release that the skin feels fragile, membrane thin. Sherlock’s inner muscles begin to clench and pulse around him, sending sparks crackling through his neurons, heat pooling in his lower belly. He’s not going to be able to go much longer, and he wants Sherlock to come first.

“You like that? When I call you filthy?” John husks out, his whole body thrumming with impending orgasm. He nips at the inside of Sherlock’s knee and rubs his face against his thigh as he rocks his hips against the lush curves of Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock nods tremulously, his body beginning to quiver and shake. He rolls his nipple between his index and middle fingers as he twists his other hand over the head of his cock, biting helplessly at his swollen crimson-coloured mouth.

“Filthy boy, my dirty little whore,” John whispers harshly, his own thrill at saying these things bringing him right to very edge.

“Oh, yes, I am, god, I am,” Sherlock mutters, thrashing and whining low in his throat as his cock begins to spill again, weak translucent threads of come dripping over his fingers and into the thick black curls between his legs. He looks transcendent, a pornographic angel, as his glistening, arousal flushed body ripples and writhes uncontrollably underneath John.

Watching Sherlock come again is too much for John’s overloaded nervous system. Unable to to hold on another second, he plunges as deeply into Sherlock as he physically can. The pressure that’s been building in him finally crests and breaks, crashing down over him in a sensation obliterating wave. The world goes blindingly white, and all he can hear is the roar of his thumping pulse in his ears as his body contracts over and over again, wringing him dry in every way. His nerves feel stripped, exposed, as though his skin’s been flayed away. He’s never come so hard or long in his life.

When his sight and hearing returns, Sherlock’s shaking beneath him, rubbing his hands up and down John’s sides and gazing at him with rapturous devotion. John peels his fingers away from where they’ve virtually adhered to Sherlock’s thighs and tries to calm his breathing.

“ _Jesus Christ_.” He lowers Sherlock’s legs - they must be aching badly by now - to the mattress and climbs over him so they can lay beside each other. “Come here, you amazing thing.”

Sherlock squirms as John gathers him into his arms, a blissful smile lighting his face. They tangle together, Sherlock sprawled across John’s chest with one leg wriggled in between both of John’s. Neither of them can talk for long minutes, and they just settle together, panting and trembling, until being naked and covered in sweat and come begins to be uncomfortably cold. John reaches for the blankets, pulling them back onto the bed from where they’d been kicked to the floor at some point.

They’re both covered in all matter of fluids, and should probably shower, but John really can’t be arsed to do a thing about it. He feels more sated and spent than he ever remembers feeling, his muscles gelatinous, his bones made of lead. His stomach is cramped and sore from the ferocity of his orgasm.

Finally he licks his dry lips and mumbles, “You good, love?”

Sherlock noses at John’s throat, mouths a languid kiss against his skin. “Mmmm. I have never been better, John. That was -”

“Fucking incredible.”

Sherlock’s soft laugh burrows sweetly down inside John, makes him tighten his arms around him possessively.

“Yes. It was.” He says drowsily, tucking his bent arms up against John’s side and nuzzling his entire body into him.

John thoughtfully strokes Sherlock’s hair for moment. He’s never felt closer to another person, physically or emotionally. There’s nothing lurking beneath the surface, nothing he has to hide or control or pretend doesn’t exist. The entirety of himself has been bared before Sherlock, and it's been embraced. Nothing could come between them now.  _No secrets, not anymore._

“I love you.” John whispers, reverent and hushed.

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock raises his head and presses his mouth to John’s.

They lay in silence, lazily kissing, their fingers wound together on John’s belly, until Sherlock groans and winces when he tries to put weight on his right shoulder. John pulls back and looks at him.

“Are you sore? Your shoulders, I mean?”

Sherlock shrugs. “A bit. It’ll pass.”

John shakes his head. “No. If we leave it, you’ll be a disaster tomorrow, every muscle will lock up and you’ll barely be able to raise your arms.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, but the doctor in John is telling him to drag his sticky exhausted arse out of this warm bed and get Sherlock the arnica cream and a few paracetamol, and a huge glass of water to ensure he’s not dehydrated. He sighs and pats Sherlock’s arm gently.

“Alright, pet, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock moans in protest and grabs at John’s hands as he rolls away. John throws a dressing gown on and pads into the bathroom, fishes what he needs out of the medicine cabinet and fills the teeth-rinsing glass with water because the kitchen seems too far away. He returns to a half asleep Sherlock spread eagle and taking up the entire bed.

“Budge over, princess.” John nudges at his hip with his knee, and Sherlock rolls onto his stomach with a grumble.

He forces the pills and water on Sherlock, who swallows it all reluctantly and then flops back down on his face. John dips two fingers into the pot of cream and spreads it across Sherlock’s upper back, getting up on his knees so he can massage it in. Sherlock sighs and stretches, sinuous as a cat.

“So.” John clears his throat, rubbing his thumb hard into the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Mmm?”

“When you’re sufficiently recovered, I wouldn’t mind a peek at that spreader bar.” John feels his cheeks colouring, now that he’s not in that mindspace anymore.

A slow smirk creeps across Sherlock’s cracked and puffy lips. “It’s behind the wardrobe.”

“Good to know.” John bites his lip, grinning. “Tomorrow?”

Sherlock lays his head on his arms and sinks down into the bed, looking more relaxed and content than John’s ever seen him. Every hard edge has blurred into a soft curve. He looks ten years younger, the lines in his face gentled. He nods and inches down under the blankets.

“Tomorrow.”

John rubs the rest of the cream into his hands and snuggles up to Sherlock. He kisses his shoulder and throws an arm across the hollow of his lower back.

“Nap, then Indian takeaway, I think. Yeah?”

“Lamb vindaloo.” Sherlock’s mouth finds John’s again.

“Vegetable korma.” John kisses the end of his nose and rolls so he’s draped over Sherlock’s back like a second skin.

“Perfect.” Sherlock sighs and yawns. “Sleep now.”

“Sleep now. Love you.”

There’s no answer, Sherlock already snoring quietly beneath him. John presses one last kiss between his shoulder blades and allows himself to drift. For the first time in his life, he knows there’s nothing wrong with him, has never been. Sherlock has worked yet another miracle in his life, showing him that he no longer has to hide from who he is. He feels at peace. He feels right. He feels _whole_.


End file.
